


Bright Threads

by Verecunda



Category: Chronicles of Prydain - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: Autumn, Gen, Trick or Treat: Treat, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 03:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Their concern is with things as they are, but even the enchantresses of Morva cannot but feel a certain satisfaction when the pattern on the loom looks especially well.





	Bright Threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/gifts).



The year was on the wane. In the northern mountains of Prydain, the highest peaks already shone white with snow, and even in the milder lands of the south, the trees had begun to shed their bright autumn mantles, and stood grimly braced against the onslaught of winter. But the Marshes of Morva, ever untouched by the passage of the seasons, stretched as grey and bleak as ever, and in the low cottage by the mound, three dark-robed hags went about their work as usual.

“Drat these cockleburs,” growled Orgoch from deep within her hood, as she picked through the wool shearings in the basket before her. “Why must I always be left with the most tiresome tasks? Why does Orwen never do this?”

“I did do it, my dear,” said Orwen placidly from her place at the spinning wheel, “the last time I was Orgoch, as I’m sure you remember.”

“Not the same thing at all,” Orgoch muttered.

“Now, now.” Orddu, sitting before the loom, smiled tolerantly at them both. “All tasks are of equal importance. Before the threads can be woven, they must be spun, and before they can be spun, the wool must be cleaned and carded. There’s no need to quarrel over it, my dears, no need at all.”

“Hmph,” Orgoch snorted. “It’s all very well for you to talk that way, Orddu. I can’t remember the last time I saw you doing this.”

“Naturally,” replied Orddu. “Whenever _I_ comb the wool, the little bits and burrs always seem to end up in my hair instead. Such an untidy business - I dread to think how many things I’ve lost in there over the years! And you know very well, my sweet, that the last time you were in charge of the weaving, you spent so much time distracted with thoughts of what was for dinner that you let the work get all tangled. Really, I don’t believe Cantrev Ergyng has ever quite recovered.”

“And what is it that you’re working on just now, dear Orddu?” asked Orwen. “It looks so very interesting.”

“Come and see,” said Orddu with a smile, and beckoned to them both to join her. Orwen and Orgoch rose from their seats, and the three of them gathered close about the loom.

“Why,” cried Orwen, clapping her hands with delight, “it’s the dear wandering chicken! Where is he now?”

“Homeward bound,” replied Orddu. “He and the whatever-it-is have reached the end of their quest, and are now following the road that will take them back to dear little Dallben and the farm.”

Eagerly, the enchantresses gazed at the work threaded upon the loom. Like the pattern of all men’s lives, it was a complex one, and at first glance it seemed that the weaver had chosen a pattern rather beyond his skill, for it had begun uncertainly, with many snarls and tangles; and, as with all lives, the brighter threads, the weft of courage, truth, love and wisdom, were closely woven with the darker warp of sorrow, doubt, anger and regret. A quick glance was enough to show that this particular pattern had grown very dark indeed of late.

“They do insist on choosing such complicated patterns, don’t they?” said Orwen, with a sigh. “They get themselves in such a terrible muddle.”

“Indeed they do,” agreed Orddu, “poor bewildered goslings. I really can’t understand why none of them like the idea of being a toad, or even a hedgehog, when we suggest it to them. So much simpler.”

“And shorter,” said Orgoch, smacking her lips.

As the work advanced, however, the pattern began to grow lighter, and as it did, so the weaving grew surer and more skilful. They peered at it with interest, watching the many images of men, women, and children, plants and animals, days and seasons, that shifted and rippled through the work.

“I must say,” said Orddu thoughtfully, “it’s really quite a good pattern, of its kind. Certainly, he’s got himself a little knotted in places, but on the whole it is very sound. Very good quality. There are many places where it might have taken an ill turn, but it continues true. Yes,” she went on, with a nod of approval, “it’s certainly no worse than most, and better than some.”

“I think it’s quite beautiful in places,” said Orwen. She pointed to a single golden thread than ran through the pattern, shimmering even in the darkest places. “See! There’s the memory of that charming creature with the red-gold hair. How lovely! Oh, I’m rather glad now that we didn’t take that from him. I think it would have spoiled it a little, don’t you? It looks much nicer there than getting all musty in one of our cupboards. It's been so long since we spring-cleaned, Orddu. I think the names of all those long-dead kings must be getting all mildewy by now...

“Oh! And look at these other threads,” she continued, peering closer at the loom. “They’re somewhat different, but shine no less brightly. What a great many friends he has, the dear sparrow!”

“Well, that’s not to be wondered at,” said Orddu. “He is an agreeable duck. A little over-fond of waving his sword about, perhaps, but he’s always polite enough to put it away when we ask him, and he’s true to his word. You’re quite right about these other threads; they improve the weave immensely. There’s a little of wisdom here, too, if I’m not mistaken - look, just at the end. See how well the work comes together here, after all these tangles, how strong and durable it is.”

“Dear Orddu,” said Orwen, “I really believe that sending him to look for the Mirror of Llunet was the best thing we could have done for him. You always have such good ideas!”

“I still say he ought to have stayed with us,” said Orgoch sulkily. “And the gurgi, too.”

“I doubt all that fur would have agreed with you, my dear,” Orddu replied. “But you’re right, Orwen, his quest has taught him much, though I doubt the poor robin has any more idea how many twigs there are in a bird’s nest - or even, for that matter, how many drops of water there are in the sea. I wonder…” Her sharp black eyes strayed to the straggling ends, where the work was as yet incomplete. “I wonder if he will continue so well. A great many trials lie ahead of him, and he does so like to make things difficult for himself, poor lamb.”

“I think I should be quite sorry to see him falter now,” said Orwen, fingering her beads with a little frown. “At least, as sorry as we can be about anything. He’s much more pleasant to talk to than Arawn. Do you think he might fail, Orddu?”

“It’s so hard to be sure,” said Orddu, with a shake of her wild head. “They're all such confused and contradictory pullets, and they let themselves get preoccupied with such silly matters, who knows what turn they may take next?” Contemplating the pattern further, she said at last, “But I think we may be confident that he will continue true. He’s not a bad duckling, all things considered. And now that he has spent some time of his own toiling at the loom, he ought to have a much better notion of how a pattern is formed, how each single thread has its place, how it intertwines with the others, and how they all bind together to form the whole. Why, I think he might even have learned a little patience.”

“He’ll need more than patience,” put in Orgoch, with a crow-like laugh, “now that Arawn is astir once more.”

“Now, my dear, you know that it’s not for us to take a hand in such matters,” said Orddu. “That is for the dear fledgeling himself to fashion. We can only weave the pattern as he has threaded it. Ah, but you’ve reminded me that winter is almost upon us. Give the bellows a pump, Orgoch, if you please. A nice strong one, I think.”

Thus, as the enchantresses returned to their work, the first harsh breath of winter blew throughout Prydain, dark clouds gathered above the mountains of Annuvin, and an Assistant Pig-Keeper rode eagerly towards home and, unknowing, towards his greatest destiny.


End file.
